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When I hear a knock, I grab my purse and head for the front door, my heart thumping behind my rib cage in nervousness and anticipation.
With a deep, cleansing breath, I swing the door open and find Brody standing on the other side, looking delectable in a pair of dark blue jeans and a powder blue button-down dress shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his arms, showcasing his muscular forearms. Our eyes lock for a moment—my blue to his hazel—and something in my stomach stirs. I tamp it down, refusing to accept it could possibly be butterflies. I’m nowhere near ready for butterflies.
But as I try to convince myself they can’t be butterflies, I remember the first time I saw Pete, and I can’t help but compare the two. Unlike on my last date nearly two years ago, when I felt absolutely nothing, right now, as I stare at Brody, I feel something. And that scares the shit out of me.
“Hey,” he says with a sexy lopsided smile gracing his lips. “You look beautiful.” He lifts his hand, and it’s then I see the pink and yellow flowers in a vase. “I wasn’t sure what kind of flowers you liked,” he says. “So I went with the colors of your coffeehouse.”
“They’re perfect,” I choke out as I take them from him and bring them up to my nose. The scent hits my senses—a flashback of the first time Pete took me out and brought me flowers—and I close my eyes, not wanting to ruin this date before it’s even begun.
Unfortunately, when I open my eyes, Brody is frowning. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “If you don’t like them…”
“I do,” I say, opening the door wider so he can come in while I set them on the table. “It’s just that the last person who brought me flowers was my late husband.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry.” I sigh, hating myself for bringing up my dead husband to my current date.
“Hey.” He takes my hand in his and threads our fingers together, and a spark of heat courses through my veins, igniting my body on fire. “Don’t ever apologize for your feelings or for bringing him up. He was your husband and the father of your children. I can’t even imagine how hard this is for you. If you’re not ready…” He starts to remove his hand from mine, and instinctually, I tighten our grip.
“No,” I blurt out, suddenly feeling the need to see this date through. I’ve come across hundreds if not thousands of guys over the years, and not one of them made me feel this way—the way Pete made me feel. “I am. I mean, maybe not completely, but I want to be ready. I know he’s gone, and he told me to move on.” I cringe at how crazy that sounds. “He wrote me a note. He had a heart condition, and he knew his time was limited. He knew I would struggle with moving on, so he told me in his note that he wanted me to move forward… and find love again.”
Brody nods. “It sounds like he loved you very much.” He steps closer and brings our hands up between us. “I’m honored to be part of your journey in finding love again.” He kisses the top of my hand softly, his lips lingering for a few seconds, and my breath catches. Butterflies erupt in my belly so chaotically that they’re impossible to ignore or try to deny what they are.
Butterflies—just like the ones I only ever got with Pete. That has to mean something, right?
“I, um… Let me just put these on the table, and then we’ll go.” Needing a moment to sort out my raw emotions, I break our connection and walk into the kitchen to set the flowers on the center of our kitchen table. Since the place is so small, there’s no actual dining room.
“It smells like cupcakes in here,” Brody says with a soft laugh.
“I swear the sugar seeps into my pores. I literally live and breathe that coffeehouse.” We walk back out to the living room. “I’d give you a tour of my place, but really, what you see is what you get.” Besides, I’m sure my tiny apartment is the last place this guy wants to hang out in. “My room is back there, and there are two rooms for the kids. The only bathroom is down the hall.” I shrug.
Brody scans the small living area. “I like it,” he says, nodding toward the black and white photos on the wall of Heart’s from years ago. They were taken the day my grandparents opened. “It’s cute.”
“I guess,” I mutter as he walks over to the hallway wall where the kids’ artwork is framed and hung.
“You don’t like it here?” he asks, looking at each of the drawings like they’re professionals hung in an art museum.
